


Bed!Rest

by shiplizard



Category: The Dresden Files
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anastasia Luccio and Karrin Murphy have the same wound.  Neither has ever let it stop them.  Two women, one moment of rapport and respite.<br/>WARNING: Slash (f/f).  Mentions of non-consensual situations (from canon).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bed!Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Mentions of previous non-consensual situations. None included in fic.   
> ! pronounced 'bang' in phonetic ASCII notation.

You've run from Harry. It looks like you're fleeing; maybe for a moment you were. Now you're just running to run, to pound your rage and shame and energy into the paved streets beneath you. You're strong-- you know this, it is a solid fact neither comforting nor damning-- but you are wounded.

If you move too close to the memory of what has been done to you, you begin to falter. You find yourself at the edge of a pit, the edges sloped and slick. You could fall into that well of hatred and rage and blackness. Your fury could consume you.

It will not. You are Anastasia Fucking Luccio, and you run for hours, schooling your magic to another use. It fuels your body now, this softer, younger, uncalloused body; when there is no energy left in your tissues you feed it with your will. And so your rage becomes running and the black at the edge of your vision subsides.

Then you slip into the ways, and return to Edinburgh.

You do not return to Chicago for two weeks, and when you do, Harry is not at his apartment, nor at MacAnally's. There is one face you know, though.

Karrin Murphy. She is young-- so young, to you, but older than your body. She burns bright and there is an anger in her, too. There is a feeling of kindred spirits, or at least kindred scars.

Wordlessly, she buys you ale. And another and another. You have sated your urge to run; you are calmer now, and too aware of your wound.

It stings, but you snarl and bite down on it, when she says: "Harry explained."

She cares for him; he is a dear friend. That is obvious enough. But she does not try to defend him, or interject his pain. She looks at you with terrible sympathy, and orders another ale that your body can't handle and hers likely shouldn't.

"You-?" you ask, able to take a kind of refuge in protecting another.

"Lord Raith. Years ago," she says in a tone so low that you can barely hear it, and you move on instinct, throwing a quick veil of silence around you both. Nobody else deserves to hear that. Nobody. No matter how matter of fact she sounds when she utters the words.

'Years ago', she says, as if that was any time at all. So young; you remind yourself, as the alcohol relaxes at least your body and you feel the slight tug towards her warmth and her sweet, curved form.

She sees you looking and indulges in her own frank perusal, avoiding your eyes with a practiced ease. Young, yes. But she-- like many mortals, it is always a surprise-- has that capacity to burn harder. She has scars and char and waxen burns on her soul like a wizard of nearly a century, and not a sheltered wizard, either.

She is the one who asks: "Are you sure?" simply and with a certain clarity of mind that overwhelms her obvious drunkenness.

"Your place?" you answer her with a question. "My own is several hundred miles away."

"I'll hail a cab."

Her house is old, inherited, its threshhold strange and tangled; it would have tripped you if she had not paused to deliberately invite you inside. You go, gratefully, and stumble just the same, falling into her arms-- your body is tiny. Hers is tinier, but strong, and she catches you against her and gives a wry smile that you can no longer refrain from kissing.

Standing the hardwood floor you wrap around each other, her arms strong and muscular under the deceptive, feminine curving of them. You are not ashamed of your body's softer build; you cannot help it, and you have done much to strengthen it in your short residency. The taste of ale lingers between your mouths, barley-bitter and quenching, and your hands find a perfect fit in the back pockets of her blue jeans, pressed flat against her buttocks.

After some time you break. She kisses your cheek and strokes your hair back, eyes sparkling. A very few words pass between you. You go to undress. She goes to get icewater.

When she rejoins you, you are sitting naked on her bed, indulging in the muted chill of the linen sheets, of her cooling system, the alcohol giving you a comfortable distance from the unfamiliarity of your body from the outside. She hands you a beading glass of icewater and it is ambrosia on your tongue.

You have drunk half of it before you look up; she is stripped to her jeans and folding her shirt, laying it aside; you watch her appreciatively. You were an artists' model; you know what is aesthetically pleasing. And you were a woman of unmanaged passion; you know what is desireable.

"Ana?" she asks, seeking permission-- the name is different in her mouth than it has been in other mouths. It does not pull at your too-new hurts. She has fully undressed now, and dimmed the light. Her hair is the brightest thing in the room, and even it is a comfortable, muted glow spilling around her head, curling at the join of her legs.

"Karrin," you agree, nodding.

She comes to you and straddles your lap, pressing you back. Her mouth finds your small breasts, your chilled, upright nipples, and she sucks gently, first left, then right. You roll her over to her side and slide a thigh between her legs, finding the friction that is suddenly necessary-- you leave dampness against her skin, and soon she is breathing hard against your collarbone between kisses, between suckling. You offer your hand but she sucks a finger and puts it back on her hip.

There is no urgency. It is skin and warmth and welcomeness, slack mouths and sleepy touches.

Some time later you work yourself to orgasm against her firm thigh only because you are tired and will not be able to sleep if you are not sated; Karrin has had one or two of her own and her eyes are heavy already. When she kisses your breasts and stomach again, leaning her head against the soft swell of you, it is afterplay, not fore.

Climax and alcohol finally overtake you, and-- curled on your side, Karrin's back a comforting wall against your own spine-- you sleep, and are for a little while content.


End file.
